City Of Stone

This City is old,
wrapped in the skin of a
maiden whose time is past.
Abandoned by her ghosts
-fled to the countryside
where graves are tended
and people remember.
The buildings speak, no one
listens anymore. The mortar
has memory and stays true.
The stones have integrity and
stand up until young men come
to build new truths and grind the
stone to dust. They are young
men with purpose searching for
the promise of hope fulfilled and
the end of age.
The old men age with wine. No
longer hungry, they have learned
to be full on the only bread worth

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poem by Ronald Shields
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Eat

Cold and dark in the morning
talk comes with a price
it is a bargain for the waitress
and diners get what they need.

The eggs are served with sympathy
for another birthday missed
the road is more than miles for
the trucker who takes them over hard.

Booth number 9 is an omelet and oatmeal
a preacher and acolyte looking for a church
the preacher's collar is frayed and yellowed
in service to a god who speaks too softly.

At the table by the door the farmers drink
coffee and talk of weather tractors prices
they have the look of a dying breed not because
they are old -their sons are off to college the
army the city or anywhere else

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poem by Ronald Shields
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